Written in blood, sealed with a rose
by Ardentine
Summary: A playwright, with no musical abilities what so ever, attempts to turn her play into an opera. From the darkness, the Phantom watched her troubling over the simple task. Fighting his heart, he composed a piece that the world would never forget…
1. Chapter 1: Blood splatters within a page

_A French playwright is seeking to Opera Populairé hoping they will act out her play. From the darkness the phantom watched this stranger's long-term ambition unfold before his eyes… Recovery is the easy part, taking the first step will be crucial: Written in blood, sealed with a rose._

Reviews are greatly appreciated; flames are accepted.

Disclaimer: I do not own the razzle, dazzle of the Phantom of the Opera. Enjoy the story!

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Chapter 1: _"Blood splatters within a page…"_

Crashes could be heard down the damp maze that led to the lair of Erik's despair. The sound of paper fluttered through the air, finally ending with a cry of fury. Erik plopped down on a near by chair. Christine is gone… She's gone Erik! He looked down to his scarlet colored hand, blood laced and trailed down his arm. He stared endlessly at his hand before swinging his arm at the candleholders near him. Hot wax sprayed in all directions, landing gracefully onto his fresh wound. He didn't yelled out neither in pain nor in fury. He just watched the wax harden over on his blood. Erik stood up from his seat and smeared all of the content on his hand on the closes thing to him. He didn't care if it was his music, or his childhood toy. Christine is gone… There's not point of living life now. He can't live without her music, her angelic voice. The phantom looked up at the broken mirror as he walked passed it, the distortion lies underneath the white mask on the right side of his face, "The true distortion lies in my soul…" he repeated Christine's words, "What do she know? She knows nothing of my soul! Foolish girl…" His voice trailed off. He looked at his hand; the hot, boiling, fresh blood didn't stop oozing out from the cuts on his hand. Anger flared within him again, he smashed his hand against the mirror. Sprinkle of glass flew around him. It was like tiny little stars twinkling against the dark cold night…

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_"A withering rose, a beauty that was lost, crushed through the cold bleak winters. Blown away with just simply with a puff of the breeze, it is no more… it is gone… it has faded…"_ The rapid clicking of the keys stopped momentarily before starting again, "The end…" the figure leaned back against the old wooden chair, closing her eyes to take in the feeling of achievement. She let out a sigh of content. The cool winter winds blew in through the opened window, pushing her soft colored brown locks to the heights of the stars, "I'm finished," She managed to squeak.

Her eyes flew opened with a tremendous amount of speed, "I'm finished!" She yelled out before snatching the paper from the typewriter and ran out of the old attic. The writer sprinted down the old, dust-covered steps and into the elegant living space of the old manor. Colorful paintings filled the bleached colored walls of the house. Expensive porcelain vases arranged on the fireplace mantle, and several of the maple tables. The maids hollered after her to stop running, she didn't heed on their warnings and kept running towards her father's study, "Father! Father!" She yelled into the opened space.

"Young Mademoiselle De Lorme!" They yelled after her.

Loud clicks filled the room as her boots came in contact with the freshly polished floors, "Father, where are you?" With her attention to the pillars that passes before her eyes hoping that its large form may hide her father's figure, she ran straight into a large door. Her arms swinging all over the place, her paper flew out of her hand.

"Célestine?" an elderly gentleman opened the door that she ran into.

Célestine groaned in pain as the feeling of blood rushed to her head. "I'm going to rip that door off its hinges personally…" She mumbled lowly to herself.

"Are you alright dear?" He said as he pulled her daughters up to her feet.

"No, it feels like my whole mouth is going to fall off…" she mumbled to herself again.

"What was that?" He said as he adjusted his optical.

She plastered a smile over her pained expression, "No, no nothing father. B-but, my play… My play is finally complete!"

He picked up her paper off the floor, and scanned it over quickly, "Wonderful honey," he grabbed her cheek fondly and pecked it, "I'm so proud of you!"

Her eyes glowered with pride, "I'm planning to head over to the Opera Populairé to see if they are willing to take my play."

Monsieur De Lorme tore his eyes from the paper and stared deep into her daughter's, almost like he was trying to burn it from its sockets, "O-Opera Populairé?" He sputtered out.

"Yes, that's one of the most popular theaters in France father! I must take my play there so the world can adore it!" She said smiling happily at her frighten father.

"Is that the same place that have caught on fire a year back?" He asked her hastily.

"I'm not sure? I guess… B-but, they must open it once again! The French people are hungry for beautiful operas!"

He ignored her comments, "Is that the same place where there's talk of an opera ghost lingering around in the catacombs beneath the opera house?"

"I haven't heard of that before…"

"I will not allow you to step foot in a place like that!"

"And why not?" Célestine placed her hands on her hips to show her rebellion.

"I will not have my daughter running around a place, that's—that's haunted with ghosts!" He waved his arms around.

"It is not haunted with ghost! There's not such thing as an opera ghost!" She raised the volume of her voice in annoyance.

"Do not defy my commands young lady." He waved his finger in front of her face.

"I'm going to take my play to that theater! You will not, and can not stop me!" She said turning herself away from her papa.

"Don't you dare defy my commands young lady, and aren't you forgetting something?"

She stopped in her steps, before turning back to snatch her paper from her father's hands, "Thank you father…" she walked slowly away.

"Your punishment will be harsh if you do…" He said shortly with a huff before turning back to his studies.

When she was behind a large pillar, Célestine broke off into a fast sprint, up the stairs, to the last room on the right. She ran quickly towards her bedroom, "Leona!" She whispered loudly for her maid.

A woman in a maid uniform sprinted in unison with her boss's daughter, "Yes mademoiselle?"

"Oh Leona, quit the formal talk. You know I hate that!" Céles ran into her closet.

"What's going? Why are you in such a hurry?" she said approaching the woman softly.

"Ready a carriage for me. I'm heading to Paris…" She said as she ran out with an outfit.

"What!" Leona pulled a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh, not so loud Leona. I don't want father to hear."

"B-but, Paris?!"

"I'm heading to Opera Populairé… I'm going to show them my play! I hope they'll act it out so the whole city can see!" Céles waltzed behind her dress change barrier. Her pulled off her oxford blouse, and threw it overhead.

"Opera Populairé?! Are you mad Célestine!? That's the place where the creepy opera ghost resides!" Leona said as she caught the shirt.

"Oh that's rubbish!" Célestine yelled as she pulled on a corset, "Do you mind?" she point towards her back.

Leona walked forward and pulled tightly on the string, "Célestine, the opera ghost kidnapped a singer, who used to reside there before. Oh what's her name, Christine Daaé?"

Céles let out a sharp gasp, "Leona! Easy on the strings!"

"Sorry…" She continued to pull on the strings.

"About Miss. Daaé…that's rubbish. Did she not come back, and wed a gentlemen?"

Leona tied the strings together, "Yes, I guess… But that's not the point!"

"Then, what's the point? She came back and all. There's no opera ghost. End of discussion…" Céles walked behind the barrier. There was a short pause between them as the playwright walked out dressed, and ready.

She wore a cleaned, and bleached collared blouse with a dark colored ascot at the top of the collar. The ascot was tucked loosely into her vest. She buttoned her long tailed blazer, and tied the satin ribbon behind her into a large bow.

"Go! Please, go ready me a carriage. Hesitate to tell my father, or anyone who questions your actions!"

"Aye ma'am…" Leona ran out of the room without a second thought.

Céles listened to Leona's fading doorsteps before turning her attention to her vanity table. She pulled her hair in a sloppy bun. She gave a nod of approval as she stared into her reflection. Continuing over to her jewelry box that she have adored ever since the day she have received it.

Two figures, a man, and a woman, perched inside the box—playing violins, both of their faces were masked. She smiled fondly at the porcelain figures before reaching in to grab a one eyed optical.

It hung limply on a silver chain ending with a diamond treble clef. Poor eyesight runs in the De Lorme family, Célestine was a victim to it. But sadly, this trait only had cursed her right eye. She shoved the optical deep into her coat pocket for later use.

"An opera ghost?" Hah! That's trash. The stuff the French make up to amuse themselves." She locked her door before proceeding down the hall, placing the small hat atop her head, "Foolish minds! They're so naïve!" _click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click_, her boots made rhythmic clicks as she skipped down the stairs. She adjusted the large bag in her hand enabling herself to put on her gloves, "A ghost kidnapped a singer, and possibly have fallen in love with her! Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish!" Célestine whispered harshly as she pulled on her other glove. The nearby maids and butlers listened to her as she talked to herself.

First it was Leona, who ran, slipped, and fell butt first towards the wet floor. Not giving any thought, she practically crawled before she can pull herself off the floor. Now, the youngest of the De Lorme, talking to herself and speak of ghosts… Today is truly going to be a long day…

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This is the first chapter, ::sighs:: I'm terribly sorry if you didn't see much of the phantom in this chapter… He's coming! Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2: Hidden Behind reality

A French playwright is seeking to Opera Populairé hoping they will act out her play. From the darkness the phantom watched this stranger's long-term ambition unfold before his eyes… Recovery is the easy part, taking the first step will be crucial: Written in blood, sealed with a rose.

Reviews are greatly appreciated; flames are accepted.

Disclaimer: I do not own the razzle, dazzle of the Phantom of the Opera. Enjoy the story!

-

Chapter 2: "Hidden behind reality…"

The ride was excruciating, the French countryside haven't received any rain lately, making the ground bumpy, and dry. The carriage bounced back, and forth as they make their way towards Opera Populairé. Célestine is starting to regret that she had defied her father's words… But who cares! She is going to get her play to be acted out for the world to see. Her life long ambition was going to be fulfilled after this long, crazy ride…

-

Erik looked up as he heard a faint clicking of horse hooves against the cobble stone street. He knew that it was like a regular day; People on the upper ground riding on carriages, passing in front of the theater but never stopping. But this particular one stopped with a holt.

"Who would come to this rundown theater?" And then, there was silence that was threatening to choke the life out of him. No clicks, or clatter. No thumps, no thonks. No music… Not even a note of her angelic voice.

Pushing these horrid thoughts behind, Erik gathered up every once of strength he has to offer to himself, and left to greet their newly arrived guest. With a quick flutter of his cape… Erik was gone.

-

Célestine almost spilled out of the carriage. She had lost count of how many times she bumped her head against the ceiling of the buggy. She toppled backwards into the car again. In aggravation, she charged her body out of the carriage. Without thought, she banged her broad forehead against the upper frame of the door causing her to fall backwards again.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" The De Lorme's old carriage driver asked the young woman as he aids her to steady ground.

She nodded weakly as a throbbing pain filled every nerve endings in her body. Her hair was rearranged in a weird manner, her hat was lop-sided, the ascot pulled out from her vest. Can anything else be wrong?

Sheets of water started to pour, narrowing the distance between the bridge of wet, and dry.

"Go Mademoiselle, before you get drench!"

"Thank you Michael! If my father asks of your disappearance, say you went to get some fresh air!" The driver nodded before bringing the horse to a gallop. Céles waved to the fading carriage before pulling her bag over her head as the rain started to fall around her. She ran towards the opera house. Hoping to the door was open; she pushed it, but it won't budge. She gave it another push; no luck, the door won't move. She yelled out in annoyance, the semi-drench playwright tugged, pushed, kicked, rammed, and even tried talking to it. Still, no luck, the doors were completely sealed tight.

She let out a cry of either anger, annoyance, or it was just the chills that she was getting with every wisp of wind. Célestine's damp hands, fisted, and banged on the large doors before her. Someone is bound to be in there, _please, anyone; I'm wet, cold and quite hungry._ She banged on the door again. Seeing no results from her outburst, she leaned in as close as she can to the door to get away from the rain, but nothing was working. The water was soaked through her coat all the way down to her corset. Her hair clung to her cheeks, the hat sat droopily on the side holding onto every drop of water that has fallen on it.

Célestine don't even want to think about her play in her bag. But deep in the back of her mind she wondered how her papers were holding out, by this time the ink must have already ran, and the paper turned into mush. With her forehead against the door, she banged on it again.

"Please! Anyone!" She felt her forehead leave the comfort, and security of the cold door, and started to tip forward. The door creaked, and moaned against the ranging roar of the rain. Célestine lost her balance; reaching up desperately for anything she can take hold of to stop her descent.

Célestine plopped down onto the ground with a slushy sound. The hems of her skirt flipped forward revealing the wet knickers she wore underneath. Céles rolled over; she looked up at a pair of confused eyes, which belongs to the Young Meg Giry.

"Ma'am," Meg leaned down, and tried to help Céles off the floor, "Are you alright?" The younger girl helped the older woman to her feet, Meg had to look up for that her guest was much taller than her, "Can I help you?"

Célestine's hopes brighten up, "If you don't mind, may I see your manager?"

"What manager?" Meg asked.

"The manger of this magnificent theater…" Céles said moving her hands around.

"This theater is no longer under any management mademoiselle …" Meg replied with sadness laced deeply in her voice.

Céles gave her a stupid look like she can't comprehend, "no management? Then… what about the operas, the shows, the plays?"

"This theater is out of business mademoiselle…" Meg rubbed her arm reflecting her sad gesture, "My mother, and I are just here picking up our stuff… If you're looking to be a dancer, you're out of luck…"

"What about a playwright and a new play?" Célestine said hopefully.

"Meg?" The two looked up to see Madam Giry making her way towards the two girls. Céles curtsied as a greeting to Madam Giry.

"Who are you? Were you the one who was pounding on the door?" She said as she stood behind Meg.

"Yes ma'am…" Céles paused for a moment to see if she'll respond back with a loud shrilling scream. None. "I'm sorry to bother you on a day like this. But, I was wondering if I could see the manager. You see, I'm a playwright, I have a new play, and was wondering if the manager of Opera Populairé would to take my play under their wings, and make it take flight-"

Madam Giry looked at the Célestine with the kindest eyes. But, like her daughter, sadness was deeply embedded in her it, "Mademoiselle…"

"Céles… Célestine De Lorme."

"Mademoiselle De Lorme, I'm sorry, but this theater no long-"

Before the elder Giry can finish what she was saying Céles had to stop her, "Please. Madam, having one of my plays be acted out is one of my wildest dreams."

"Then you came to the wrong theater miss…" Giry said simply.

Céles's shoulders slouched with the feeling of failure, tears were forming at the corner of her eyes, "Please ma'am… There must be a way that I can speak to the former manager of this theater."

Both of the Giry looked at her, exchanging glances. Madam Giry let out a sigh; "I guess I can go fetch Firmin, and André tomorrow morning…"

Céles looked up at her, her lips forming a pleasant smile on her face, "Thank you so much, urm…"

"Giry… Madam Giry to you…"

"Madam Giry, thank you so much ma'am. I'll return bright and early tomorrow morning." The playwright curtsied again.

"Heavens no child, you're going to stay here for the night. It's pouring buckets out there. It will be difficult to fetch your driver. Us two might not be able to leave either."

"B-but ma'am…" Céles cringed at the sound of thunder.

"It will be easier if you've stay here for the night, Firmin, and André will be here bright, and early…" Giry said brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes.

"B-but… but… ma'am…"

Madam Giry waved her comment off, "Meg, show her to an empty room…"

"Madam!"

"Come on…" Meg grabbed one of Céles's wet hands and pulled her towards the inner realms of the opera house.

The sound of their footsteps faded with every second, Madam Giry sighed out quietly, "Erik, you're loosing your touch…Good thing the girl didn't notice you."

Erik removed himself from behind a large column, and looked down at Madam Giry, "You don't think she can do it do you?"

"Never loose hope Erik… Never loose hope…"

-

Célestine admired the dusted-covered, golden statuaries; the heavy, maroon curtains, the spider webs filled chairs; she let out a soft, "wow."

As they continue to walk, her sight fell upon a large chandelier that lay broken in the middle of the seats. Its crystals shimmered against the weak candlelight from backstage. How she longed to see the golden rays of Opera Populairé's grand chandelier.

Meg led her to one of the dressing room; the wet hems of Célestine's dress caught dust, and dirt that were left untouched for a year.

"I hope this room will suit you…" Célestine looked into the semi-lighted room, its wonderful mahogany colored walls contrasted to the large mirror, and the brick fireplace in the far corner.

"Will it suit me? If you put me in the kitchen, I'm already happy—this room is magnificent!"

"This used to belong to La Carlotta…" Med said lighting the candles that were about the room, it luminescent itself across the space, "And for sometime, Christine Daaé…"

"Christine Daaé?"

"Yes ma'am, she used to be the best singer here."

"What've happened to her? Is it true that she was kidnapped by an… opera ghost?" Célestine said as she whipped her head towards Meg.

"I should not say what've happened to her." The former dancer said as she treated into the hall.

"And why not?"

"I should not say madam, there might be ears on the wall."

Céles could see the uneasiness of Meg's answer; she decided to drop the topic. Smiling warmly, pulling the damp hat off her head, Célestine thanked Meg.

"No problem, it would be great to see some plays again. Mother, and I will be in our flat on the upper floor if you need us."

Célestine nodded at the leaving girl. With the click of the closing door, she was left alone.

-

Erik made his way down to the underground hallways. He could see clearly that, t-this girl- no woman, whose features hold age, and wisdom that was closely to his. Her prettiest was emphasized by the pleasant nature that showed on her face. Her graceful pose, and soft gestures adds to all that she was.

Erik shook his head rigorously to rid the horrid thoughts from his head. He was surprised, even scared to see himself standing in front of the two-way mirror that was made into a doorway, so he can gain access to teach Christine when she was present.

He watched Céles taking in every feature of the room. Célestine pulled every withering rose bouquet and threw them all into the fireplace. Old paper: wet or dry, pieces of wood were all victims to her fire. Taking a candle, she threw it into the clump of stuff, which all burst into flame. The golden glow caressed over her soft skin. Célestine's full lips tugged upwards at one thought of accomplishment.

Erik couldn't pull himself away from his current position, her beauty almost made him press his face against the cold pane to get a closer look. Céles turned around reassuring herself that she was alone, before shedding her damp coat, draping it over a red velvet chair. She unclipped her soggy ascot and threw it on the chair. Moving forward to the vest, which was still dripping wet, she pulled it off and hung it near the fireplace to dry.

Erik breaths quickened at the sight of her, his heartbeat was racing, vapor started to appear on the mirror. He could feel heat rising to his face. She unzipped her skirt letting it drop to the ground. Erik could see she's an owner of an elegant pair of never-ending long legs. She gathered her skirt, and blouse and draped it over the fireplace. Erik's knees unbuckled as this new sensation filled him from head to toe. He fell, banging his head against the mirror, and went down on his knees clutching his head.

Frighten by the sound, Célestine lunched up, letting out a loud yelp, clutching her loose corset to prevent any cleavage from showing.

"Shit!" Erik whispered loudly.

"W-who's there?" Célestine crossed her legs, and stumbled over a chair. She fell on her back with her legs arching up towards the ceiling, "who's in here?" she yelled as she rolled off the couch. Erik managed to look up from all of the pain in his head. Her emerald colored eyes cloaked with fear and confusion, stared back at him; her beauty was luring him into her again.

His attention was torn away from her aura when Madam Giry, and Meg burst into the room, "Bless the dear saints above, I could hear you from the attic!"

"There's something in the mirror, on it, in it… near it!" The playwright stuttered as she struggled to tie her corset. Madam Giry gave no second thought, and moved towards the mirror.

Her hawk like eyes scanned the mirror until it stopped on a shadowy figure wearing a white mask, with sheepish looking grin on his face. Giry gave the figure a _what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing_ look, causing him to scratch his head like a monkey, shrugged his shoulders and give a wider grin.

"Is anything there?" Célestine asked as Meg finished tying her corset to a close.

"No, must have been a rat…" She said turning from the mirror.

"That was no mere rat, I heard a bang!"

"Maybe it was the thunder you've heard." Meg said quietly, knowing very well what—no, who's behind that illusion of a mirror.

Célestine, not letting go of her own reason yelped, "It was a pretty loud bang madam. The thunder can't cause a noise like that. It'll be muffled by all of the walls."

"You never know. Now come, it was a pretty eventful day, you must get some rest." Madam Giry tried to persuade the woman. Meg helped the writer on to the couch.

"But madam-"

"No buts, you must sleep." Célestine knew she had to drop the subject. Madam Giry actually lives here, possibly knows the theater like the back of her head. She was in no position to argue in a battle she can never win. Célestine dropped her head, and nodded.

"Get some rest please Mademoiselle De Lorme, delusion comes with tiredness." the door was slammed shut.

"I am not delusional!" Célestine fussed. She stood up from the couch, and walked over to the mirror. Her tired self image stared back at her; touching the cool surface, which heated under her palm giving her an eerie feeling.

Erik was looking straight into her eyes. Fog appeared, and faded with ever puff of breath she let out. He wanted to walk up to the pane to take a better look, but he can't risk her seeing the horrid scene that was forever imprinted on his face.

Angered by the reality of his world, Erik retreated into his world of darkness.

-

Finally the second chapter! I'm sorry for the slow update. I know what you all are thinking; "THERE'S NO FIREPLACE IN THE DRESSING ROOM!" Yes, yes I know there's not. But you can imagine there is one, can't cha? XD

Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3: Let the show begin…

_A French playwright is seeking to Opera Populairé hoping they will act out her play. From the darkness the phantom watched this stranger's long-term ambition unfold before his eyes… Recovery is the easy part, taking the first step will be crucial: Written in blood, sealed with a rose._

Reviews are greatly appreciated; flames are accepted.

Disclaimer: I do not own the razzle, dazzle of the Phantom of the Opera. Enjoy the story!

Chapter 3: "_Let the show begin…_"

"I don't know why you've brought us back here…" Firmin said walking into the dimmed lobby.

" I have someone I want you to meet." Madam Giry said leading them.

"If it's _him_, I won't have it!" André stopped in mid-step.

"It's not who you think of, monsieur. I assure you."

"The theater is no longer under our control, what do--" Firmin said taking in a huff of air, making him look taller.

"If _I_ remembered correctly, you still have the claim in your possession, sir." Madam Giry turned to look at the two gentlemen. The two managers looked at each other with utter ignorance of not giving in, "Please gentleman. Right this way…" Giry started walking again.

"This is unbelievable, I will not have this!" Firmin mumbled as he walked beside the smaller man. Through all of his rage, and fury, he wonders who wanted to see him. He was no man of great importance. And come on, Gilles André, he's in the junk business!

They stopped at the two large doors, which led to Célestine's temporarily quarter. "She's right in here." The two men moved, "I don't advise you to go in at this moment…"

"And why not?" André flustered, aggravated.

"If _I_ remember correctly, this is still our theater, and we can do anything w--" As he pulled the door opened, it seems like time had frozen in place. André let out of loud gasp. The sight wasn't what they hoped to see in the early morning.

Célestine was perched over the chair trying to reach for her shirt. Her back was exposed to them; she was not wearing her corset or a chemise.

Wide-eyed, scared, Célestine clutched her bare chest, and let out a loud scream.

Firmin pulled the door close with a loud thud. Both of the men were flushed with a great color.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Pulling out a handkerchief, André wiped the sweat off his nose, "Who was that woman?"

"That gentlemen, is your spark to a new beginning."

"What?"

"Célestine De Lorme, a playwright--"

"What a playwright wants with us?"

"She has an offer you can't refuse, monsieur "

"What is this rubbi-" The larger manager was stopped by the doors, which flew with great reflex that it collided into the wall, frightening them both.

"I'm so sorry, gentlemen. I didn't know you would be here so early. I would have woken up much earlier! I'm such a lazy person…" Célestine said as she fumble with her wrinkled ascot.

"I think w-we're the ones who owe you an apology, mademoiselle." André blushed again.

Célestine's cheeks also flared with a great color, "N-no problem monsieur … It was my fault entirely. I should have locked the door." She shook her head softly, clearing her throat, "Well shall we?" Céles propped the door opened again, the furniture were arranged in a meeting atmosphere, with the warm feeling of the fire that glowed brightly easing the tense air.

Firmin, and André walked into the room, setting themselves comfortably, side by side, on the couch.

"I'll go get you some coffee." Madam Giry said turning to leave the room.

* * *

Erik never considered himself as a heavy sleeper. The muffled scream of Célestine voice had awoken him up from his dreamless slumber. Last night's events still hung heavily in his head. It seems like that woman has some powers over him. She made his knees weak with just one look of her. Erik felt like a little boy who has fallen in love for the first…second time.

He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. But it would not disappear. This was the first time in his life he'd felt tired to the point of extreme. Erik slumped down onto the soft pillow again. He hated himself so weak

The dimmed candlelight seems to burn endlessly without him caring, or not; he stared at it, hoping God will play a hand and show him what to do, say, or even act at a time like this. His heart was in pieces. Christine was the glue that could mend his broken heart. Death was the only solution he can think of.

The phantom sat up slowly from his reclined position. He still wonders, why is he still lingering around here? Is he _really_ expecting for Christine to appear out of nowhere, running back to his embrace, crying, and asking for his forgiveness of her being so foolish of picking Raoul?

Self-pity.

Or is it that God is shedding his love and pity on Erik and have thrown Célestine De Lorme, a country writer to the steps of the opera house for him—to him.

But no high-class lady like her wants to fall in love with a _myth_. Then again, she might be different. She might like strange new things—wait, what? Erik had almost slapped himself across the head to bring himself out of his fantasies.

Nearly half pass nine, and not a peep from anyone. Maybe it was a sign of another perfect day…

* * *

"What?"

"A score, don't you have one?"

"This is an opera house; singing, dancing, prancing around the stage. An opera needs a score."

"But my play is not meant to be an opera."

"Then we cannot act it out."

"Why? It's a play, and this is a theater."

"And I wonder why they've named it _Opera Populairé…_" Firmin said sarcastically.

"It's an opera theater, darlin'--"

"But a theater nonetheless!" the writer was a needlepoint away from loosing her sanity.

"An opera theater, woman!" Firmin has finally lost his patience with the girl.

"We can turn it into an opera…" André said, trying to not crush the dreams of the young playwright, and her first big break.

"But, composing a score and twisting the words into lyrics can take weeks, let alone months!"

"Monsieur Reyer is quite talented."

"But sir, composing an unnecessary part is time consuming. We have to fix the theater, which my family will provide all the money needed, rehearsals, _and_ composing… It's too long. For me at least."

"Patience!" Firmin burst again.

"Why not try something new, it's quite close to the turn of the century…"

Firmin stood up, "Now listen to me little lady, if you wish to have this production be shown to the public. You shall do things our way. Listen to our advice! The longer you talk about all of this boredom, it's keeping me from my morning croquet match!"

Célestine looked at him with the utmost disgust, "Sir, I do not mean to _keep_ you away from your already busy schedule. If you would agree to some of the things…"

"Listen to me again!" Firmin pushed her back down onto the chair; "You can not seduce me into any agreement with your beautiful brown hair, and sophisticated style and manner. You're very beautiful, I doubt not. But, we shall do things our way! Reyer is composing, and directing this play with you helping. Final! Fin! The End!" Firmin placed his hat on his head, and stepped out of the room. Leaving a fear stricken girl planted in her seat.

"You have to forgive him. He's a bit jumpy about coming back to the theater," André stood up also. "I guess it settles it then, Mademoiselle De Lorme. Hope to see this one to its successful end." Célestine looked up weakly, giving his hand a gentle shake.

"T-thank you, sir." Was all she can utter.

* * *

A quarter till three, and the Girys were nowhere in sight. Célestine sat in the middle of the stage overlooking the whole theater. The tattered curtains lay helplessly on the ground. Even though this place is on the verge of collapsing, it still holds a majestic aurora. It'd give the young writer a feeling of content to be in a place as mysterious as this.

Erik rummaged through a cabinet, hoping Giry had left something for him. Nothing. There was an old box of crackers. But fearing for his health, Erik closed the door with a thud. He cursed sharply as he heard his stomach growled, begging for food.

"—But she has a beauty that no one can replicate," the voice changed to a lower tone, as if a man was talking. "She is a maid! She has no status in this world of ours!" Erik listened to the voice again. The pitch heightens, "Papa, papa, I do not mind. Truly, I want to work for Monsieur Charpentier!" The tone of the voice lowered again, "But Aimee, I can not allow--" The voice cut itself off, replacing it with an imitation of another character. "Hand her over now!" The phantom moved through the labyrinth of the theater cautiously heading towards the stage. He pushed the dust-covered curtain away reveling the source of the voice.

Célestine was acting out her own play for an invisible crowd of people. He crossed his arms comfortably waiting her to finish. His eyes watched her walking back and forth portraying numerous of characters that Erik can't tell if it was either a man or a woman. But no matter, this play of hers sounds better on stage than on paper.

To the watching phantom's surprise, Célestine plopped backwards onto the stage still speaking the lines from her play. Erik had to fight back the urge to run out and catch her. Her shrilling hysterical laugh snapped himself out of his shock. This woman is crazy! He watched her roll around the stage, catching dust to her dress.

The sound of clapping stopped her from her madness and made Céles look towards the dark figure.

Stupid Erik! Why did you clap for her? Erik fought his conscious from walking out into the light reveling him self and hopefully scaring the woman back into her madness from seeing a ghost.

"Madame Giry? Meg?" the woman stood up slowly scanning her eyes between the folds of the curtains. The dark figure did not move.

Once again, this stranger pushed the phantom into an uncomfortable corner that Erik had to dig himself out of, "who's there?" Célestine pressed on.

Battling her fear that was stirring in the pit of her stomach, she moved towards the retreating figure. "Please, wait up!" Not letting the person to run from her reach, Célestine pursued after Erik.

The phantom knew that she was right behind him. He made a quick turn hoping he can loose her.

Right after him, she followed his steps. Without seeing a free lying hook, her dress caught on it. Preventing her to pursue him any further. Céles cursed loudly as she tried to wrangle the folds of her dress from the hook. "Come back!" She screamed again.

Distracted as he looked back at the struggling playwright, Erik tripped over a fallen candleholder and once again, banged his head against the floorboards.

Two times in one life, he thought painfully to himself.

Somehow Célestine managed to catch up to the run away phantom, turned him over and straddled him. Her lush green eyes looked at him curiously.

"Why did you run away?"

Unable to answer her, he shrugged his shoulders.

"That's not an answer!" She snapped.

"I'd left something on the stove…" Erik said slowly, mentally hitting himself for making up such a stupid answer.

"You're lying!" Célestine yelled again. This woman was not as innocent as she seems to be. In fact, she was down right scary. "Who are you?"

"An old patron of this theater." The playwright narrowed her eyes at him.

"What's with the mask? Expecting a masquerade?" She pushed on, not trusting him.

"Yes I am." Erik was getting irritated and the weight of her body grew even more with every passing moment. "Mademoiselle, as you can see, your legs are still between my torso and I'm in quite an uncomfortable position." The phantom snarled at her. She won't budge.

"What an old patron doing here? Don't you know the theater is close?"

"I should be asking you the same question." He expressed coldly.

"I'd asked you first, smart aleck!" Célestine tighten her thighs against the side of his legs, preventing him to run away… again. As Erik struggled to storm up an answer, the woman took the time to memorize the stranger's handsome features.

His gray-blue eyes stared at her with the utmost disgust, while his noble brows pressed together giving her an angry look. Since half of his face was covered with the ridiculous white mask, she could not see his whole face. But nonetheless, the left side of his face was as mesmerizing as it could be.

Before he got the chance to answer, Madame Giry's voice could be heard faintly from the other side of the theater. Meg's soft laughter followed her mother's sentences.

Taking his chance, Erik pushed himself off the floor; scaring Célestine sending her flying towards the floor, butt first, a few inches away from their original position. The phantom made a run for it before the Girys could catch him with the playwright.

"Ah, Mademoiselle De Lorme, your carriage--"

Madame Giry's sentence was cut short by the rapid pointing gestures of the woman. "Please tell me you saw him!"

"Saw who madam?" Meg said stepping to stand beside her mother. There was only one _him_ she could think of.

"The gentlemen! He was wearing a white mask as if he was going to a masquerade ball!"

"What did he do to you?" Madame Giry mumbled roughly, kneeling down next to Célestine. Examining her petticoat making sure there was no trespassing hand that had snaked up her thigh. "Did he touch you?"

"Well…" Célestine took a moment to organize her thoughts. "_I_ straddle him."

"What!"

"No, no, not like that. Heavens no! Sexual intentions outside of a marriage bed are prohibit! You should know that… Well, anyways, he'd appeared out of nowhere, when I turn to look at him, he ran away. I was curious, so I chased after him. I'd straddled and negotiated the stranger. Then, you came back and he took off again!" The woman paused for a moment. Meg and her mother exchanged glances. "He was quite a fine gentlemen…" Céles said semi-consciously in a dreamy tone.

Meg let out a soft giggle.

* * *

It was a week from the humiliating incident. Both of the two encounters could not forget what had happened. But Célestine was able to drop the thought faster than Erik since she has numerous of things she had to pay attention to.

One, after countless of begs and promises, Célestine was able to persuade her father to pitch in some money to help repair the _Opera Populairé._

Second, Célestine had to think off a way to get the Theater Company and audiences to come back to the theater.

Third, She had to find out who that lovely gentlemen she had encounter last week was.

Fourth, find a construction team.

Fifth, go to the bathroom.

Célestine took residence in the main dressing room enabling her to have access to the whole theater with Madame Giry by her side. Mousier Reyer, who had refused to come back to the theater at first, turned out to be a genius after all. The young playwright had only encounter him once, but they were able to get a ton of things done.

Knowing Célestine, who has no musical or artistic abilities what so ever, was not much of a big help to Reyer. She sounds like a dying chicken if she tries to sing. She was bound to launch the bow if she tries to play any string instrument. And don't even bring up the piano. But with Reyer's help, she was able to hum out the melody of the songs enabling her to twist her script into lyrics for the song.

Célestine lay down on the floor; her long legs were resting comfortably in between mounds and mounds of paper. Mousier Reyer had just left, another successful session. But they were nowhere near the finish line. She was clueless about music, let alone, composing it. She let out an exhausted sigh. Meg was sent to fetch some supplies for their dinner tonight and Madame Giry was in her quarters, cleaning, reading, or whatever she does in her free time. Perhaps, practicing ballet.

The distressed playwright craned her head backwards to look at the large mirror behind her.

A crack? She thought, rolling over to get a better look. She cocked her eyebrows together, standing up to observe her new find.

"It is a crack…" She whispered as she ran her hand over it. There was enough space for her to slip the tip of her fingers into the opening. To her surprise, the mirror pushed aside like a door. A cool blast of musky air hit her face; the stench was wet and heavily humid. She looked through both sides of the mirror and found out that it was tinted so darkly; she can barely see her hand pressed from the other side. "So if there's a peeping tom… I won't know a thing about it." She whispered slowly to herself.

What's in the heaven's name? Is this how the theater crew get the kick out of their days? Peeping on un-expecting ladies as they dress for their performances? She thought harshly to herself as she walked forward into the dark pathway.

With the darkness cloaking her eyes, she ran right into an arm, holding a candleholder. Célestine let out a small shriek at sight. With "things" blocking her path, she had to crawl beneath them to get to the other side.

The curious girl had more walking to do. The lane was dimly lit with one or two candles. Giving her barely enough light to make it down the shallow steps leading down the path.

Sound of dripping water made her think she had hit the sewage canals. But there was no bitter scent in the air. She looked down at the stagnant water carefully. The green water gave back a wavering reflection of her disgusted expression. Wanting to find out what's at the end of the canal, she jumped into the water. Céles could feel her boots were filling up with water, making it harder for her to move. She groaned in annoyance and had made a difficult decision of abandoning her boots so she can move through the dimmed water easily. The water level immediately went from knee height to mid-thigh almost up to her hips. She continued to slosh through the water.

The beautiful architectural design of this watery labyrinth gave her a wave of amazement. Even underground, the majestic appeal of the opera house continues.

Deep in thought, Célestine lost her footing for a minute and fell into the water. She emerged from under, adding a splash of colorful metaphors while she was at it. Her whole body was drenched with the disgusting water; the blouse stuck onto her skin, her hair fell limply around her face and the makeup ran slightly from the edge of her eyes. Today was not her lucky day. She wiped her eyes with her fisted hands and continued down the watery path, limping as she went.

It has never fail to amaze the curious traveler that creepy alleys and crevasses gave her the most comfortable feeling that she can't even get from her own family. Célestine was known to be a big fan of gothic romance novels and dark poems that would give any regular readers chills for days.

Since young, only her lone father raised her. Mme. De Lorme died of childbirth and she didn't even have the chance to see the wailing infant, begging to be held correctly instead of being held by the feet, dangling upside down like she was a dead chicken. Sir De Lorme had done nothing but fed his child with the best of the best. He had different tutors to teach the young prodigy different subjects. He'd always thought that music was a waste of time, so he did not allow Célestine to be near anything that involves music. Though in secrecy, one of her tutors taught her how to waltz, thinking it would come in handy during one of her father's parties and balls. But she has other things in mind; the young girl took a large interest in composing stories and poems and became the playwright she is today. No. The playwright she is going to become.

Célestine looked towards the flickering reflection of a horde full of candleholders. The rocky walls were eroded by the water creating a sort of cave, housing an… organ, was it? Her eyes were playing tricks on her. Reaching underwater into her pocket, she pulled out the monocle and peered through it. It is an organ! Célestine dared to move deeper into the hidden music conservatory. Was this a part of the opera house? Is it a secret dormitory for a singer? No! An artist, there were nothing but drawings tacked up on the frame of broken mirrors surrounding the room. Then he or she must be a musician also. There were music sheets lying lifeless on the floor and a cello perched against a stool that looks as if it was going to fall over at any moment.

There was not a sign of a living person any where in this cavern. Well, a few, a half eaten apple on the table. The wax was still boiling above a torch of light that was heating it and fresh rosin on the strings and bow. Célestine took careful steps as she tried to climb up the rocks to a more steady ground. She had lost her footing once again and fell back into the water. The monocle slipped from her eyes and disappeared into the foggy water.

The loud splash of water made Erik look up from his daydream. It can't be a rat, a rat don't make that kind of sound; it was too loud and heavy as if it was a person. Erik lifted himself out of his thoughts and walked out towards the canal. He, indeed, saw a person. It was a woman, not just any woman, but the demanding and scary playwright from before.

He had thought that she was a bit rough on the edges that needed to be smooth out. She did not have the pleasant and graceful facial features that Christine has, but it was more determined and mature in her own unique way. Her manners were well etiquette; her accent was heavy and thick as if she was Irish, perhaps Scottish, which blends perfectly with the soft tones of her voice. He watched the woman struggle in the water, angry at her mistake.

"What are you doing here?" He bellowed, realizing that she was in his dreadful delirium.

"Trying to discover what's at the end of the rabbit hole…" He knew that her remark was related to Lewis Carroll's Alice's adventures in wonderland.

Erik watched her try to climb onto the rock that serves as a platform for his belongings. He walked down the rigid steps slowly. As she finally managed to settle herself firmly on her two feet, dripping wet with water.

"That's not an answer…" Repeating the same remark that she'd said to him. The distance between them was unbearable for him. He felt as if he wanted to strip her down and warm her with his own embrace.

Stop it, Erik! His mind yelled at him.

She knew very well that he was mocking her. "Well, it is for me." She paused as she looked at the sketches near her hand. "Is this… where you live?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." The phantom replied coolly.

"It's beautiful." The words seem to flow out of her mouth and slap him full force against his.

He had expected something more along the lines of either: _oh my god! You're the phantom! Stay away from me! _Or _how can you live in such an isolated place like this?_ Nothing. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she stared at a sketch of something resembling closely to her own face. Erik made a swift move, pulling the sketch from the tack, hiding it behind his back. She ignored his gestures and continued deeper into his home, trespassing his façade. As she passed by him, he grabbed her wrist to restraint her from going any further. But to his surprise, she did not try to pull away from his grip and stopped in front of stool, acting as if he didn't grab it.

How can she be so calm about these things? He asked himself as he observed her.

He wanted to yell at her to leave him. His mouth opened, but his conscious did everything to keep the retched words back. He wanted to hang her for her neck for trespassing. He wanted to kill her slowly and painfully making her feel the same pain that he went through.

One side of him was yelling out, "She's making a mockery of your life! Hang her from fingers until they snap off!" But the other was just glad that there's a female presence, making him comfortable and free of fear.

Her mellow words draw out slowly, "You composed this?" She said picking up the sheet. Crimson petal was the name. She knew it was for her "opera" since the lyrics were closely related to her script. Erik managed a soft yes. "For the opera?" For this question, there was no reply.

She seems like a different person from the one who had straddled him, demanding an answer for his wandering. "Can you play it for me?" She turned slightly to him, hoping for a silent nod. None.

After a moment, he shook his head no.

"Why not?" He didn't reply but let go of her wrist and moved passed her towards his "bedroom".

Célestine watched him retreat into him own sanity. She has a hunch that he was the phantom of the opera. Who else would live down here? She was not much of a religious person even though she has been to many services in the past. So she did not believe in superstitions of ghosts and ghouls like her family does. But for some reason, she was not scared of his presence. Actually, the mask gave him a sex appeal and she thought he was utterly handsome in it.

Setting the music sheet down to its original position, she retreated back to the place where she had started. Erik walked out again when he heard the splash of water.

"You can take a dryer path back to your residence…" His voice was low and melancholy.

"I'll take the same way I came. Knowing me, I would get lost and die down here."

"I'll take you."

"No, no don't bother." She was near the entrance. "I envy your artistic and musical abilities. The picture you brutally pulled from the mirror was beautiful by the way." Erik did not answer her comment, but he could feel a pang of happiness surge through his body. "Thank you." And with that small comment, she disappeared behind the large wall that acts as the support beam for everything in his little world beneath reality.

* * *

Third chapter is here! The school is just a hassle and I have no time to think of new ideas. To me, this chapter sounds cheesy. But I'll let you be the judge.

First, I had a difficult time of writing this chapter. I had to keep the words in the time era. (SMART ASS was not one of them, so smart aleck was close enough)

Second, I don't think Erik has a cello. But just for the sake of the story, there's a cello. Cello has a deep, melancholy and very mysterious sound, not to mention sexy.

Third, I had tried to make Erik as cold as he can be. Why wasn't Célestine scared of the phantom? Célestine and Christine have a big age difference, and the maturity level differed greatly. If you'd noticed, people who are not much of a religious person, they don't believe in silly superstitions and can handle more creepy things like ghosts, bad luck, or whatever.

Finally, sorry for the slow update…

Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4: Questioning our existence

_A French playwright is seeking to Opera Populairé hoping they will act out her play. From the darkness the phantom watched this stranger's long-term ambition unfold before his eyes… Recovery is the easy part, taking the first step will be crucial: Written in blood, sealed with a rose._

Reviews are greatly appreciated; flames are accepted.

Disclaimer: I do not own the razzle, dazzle of the Phantom of the Opera. Enjoy the story!

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Chapter 4: _"Questioning our existence."_

Célestine sat, leaning against the couch as the sky outside darkened, the stars starting to appear with all their shinning glory. It was a peaceful night in the city. A couple of rustling men and women were trying to find their way home before they were completely cloaked in darkness and the poorly lit lanterns and the pale moonlight will be their only source of light.

A team of construction workers and engineers from New York City, America have decided to tackle the dangerous task of fixing _Opera Populairé_. Finding them was easy as pie, but convincing them was the hard part.

At first, they wrote a big fat "no" on a letter they had sent her after she had requested their help and promised to pay them abundantly after they've finished their tasks. They'll even be given food and boarding while they're here. After a few more persuasion letters, they said yes if she promised to find a way to keep the ghosts away from them. Célestine crossed her heart that she would.

They'll be here in a couple of weeks.

The playwright turned her head towards the large mirror. There were no cracks or partition. It looked as if it was sealed shut, preventing her to go through it. Célestine turned to the ballet master, asking her if she would tell the tales of the Phantom. Mme. Giry looked at her as if she had grown another head and refused to tell her any stories.

The days at the opera house seem to crawl slower with each passing day. Célestine has been here for well over a month. She kept herself busy by reading over the script, humming some of the songs Reyer have composed.

Singing them was a disaster. The rats would squeal so loudly when she tried to sing and run away to their homes. She chuckled at the thought.

Meg busted through the door gave the playwright quite a fright.

The ballerina apologized politely, closing the door behind her. Meg was the closest thing Célestine has to a friend at the moment. The younger woman would come and sit with the elder playwright, listening to her stories about the country. It gave both of them an ardent flare of happiness since they were living in such a dreary place.

Today was no different.

"Meg, I have a question."

The young girl looked at the playwright on the floor. "Yes?" Meg felt at ease after a while as if Célestine was her old friend, Christine.

Heavens! Their names are even alike!

"What do you know of the Phantom? What is his name? Is he still a virgin?" The last question took them both by surprise.

"Mother forbade me to tell you any stories about Moue. Phantom."

The playwright cocked her eyebrows together, "can you at least tell me his name?"

"I don't know his name, Mademoiselle."

"You're lying…" Célestine didn't look up to match Meg's contempt stare, but straight into the mirror. The young Giry could see the longing expression in the playwright eyes, begging to be told about the Phantom.

"His name is Erik. Mother saved him from a circus and hid him away in the caverns and basement of this opera house," she paused to catch her breath, "he was Christine vocal teacher. He usually approached this room through that doorway right there." Meg nudged to the mirror they both were staring into.

"What's under the mask?"

"Even I don't know the answer of that."

"He's quite charming, don't you think?" A small smirk played against Célestine's lips. A pleasant visage danced on her face, making it abundantly glowing against the pale light of the candles.

Meg could only lie about her answer. "I'm in no position to answer that."

Célestine's hand played with the beads on her skirt.

In the past, she was the deliberation of every male ranging in ages from 18 to 80! Her father had arranged for her to meet with several dukes, lords and counts from neighboring provinces and countries. He had hoped to promote his daughter's status. All of the men Célestine had met did not either share the same interests as her or they are not as charming as she had wish they would be. Sir De Lorme pressed on his daughter that interests and looks does not play a hand in marriage. The role of a wife was to take care of the family and produce heirs.

They both ended up in a verbal fight.

Célestine taunted that her mother married a terrible man who does not love her for who she was. She thought her mother would be better off married to a stable boy and she would be happier with him than with her father! In reality, she loved her father, but when it comes to heeding his attention to the stuff that his love ones liked, he sucked at it. His St. Christmas day's presents was always useless! She had no use for items like a basket full bobbins of thread and embroidering patterns.

Deep in thought, the playwright played with the multi-layered petticoat. The jewel on her garter was painfully pressed against her thigh. She's going to have a permanent scar if she kept wearing it.

She came from the countryside of France, being dressed as royalty was not required everyday. She loved the days when she was allow to wear only drawers with riding trousers and an oxford styled shirt. The sleeves would be too big on her that it would bellow and ballooned in the wind.

But life is not that simple any more.

"Have you ever talked to him?" Célestine pulling herself back into their conversation.

Meg looked up from the music sheet. "No, mama only told me little stories about him," she paused for a moment, "what had happened that turn your interest to the opera ghost?"

"I'm not sure. Is he really a ghost?"

"Christine had said he was a regular man like every one else."

"What are his weaknesses?"

"Singing…"

One of the many dreadful things that she cannot do!

Célestine felt silly about asking Meg these questions about a man who she took one look at and fell in love with. Her father often said that love at first sight was just a myth. No one in the past has ever looked at a person and then fell in love with him or her right away! It was a foolish dream.

Célestine felt like a child thinking about all of the rubbish. But when it comes to the matter of the heart, it's a hard decision of being foolish about it or not. The contradictions battling in her mid had concluded that she was foolishly in love with a stranger, to add to that, this stranger was no ordinary stranger, but the 'phantom' himself. Célestine sighed out quietly. Maybe it would have been better if she'd gotten married to the duke who was three times her own age.

Love was also another issue that her father kept talking about. "Love will get you no where! It does not matter if your husband does not return your love. You must still do your duties of being his loyal wife no matter the consequences!" His words were still ringing in her head.

"I hate this world and its cruelties." The playwright slumped back against the couch.

"It's not that bad." Meg rebelled, laughing as she set the music sheets down.

"Love, when you get to my age, you'll think the world is a living hell."

"I can't wait…" The two of them broke into peals of laughter. Laughing is a good remedy for a wounded soul.

After a while, an uncomfortable silence fell around them. Célestine looked tiredly at her toes peeking out from the ruffles of her dress.

"It's getting late. I must get back to mama before she starts worrying." Meg stood up from her seat. Céles nodded and closed her eyes momentarily before it fluttered open. "You should rest Célestine. Dark circles are starting to grow under your eyes."

"I embrace my old age with my whole heart."

"You're not old, Mademoiselle De Lorme! Please try to get some sleep. You'll need all of your strength for the days ahead." Meg retreated from the room. "Good night."

"Good night, child" the door clicked slowly.

----

Erik could feel his fingers were going to start bleeding again. He has been composing and practicing pieces for _her_ at his own will. No matter how hard he tried, he can't bring himself to stop. The music sheets were stained red with his blood and sweat of determination.

The hollow sound of the ringing cello echoed through every crevasse in the cavern. The melancholy tone bounced off every rock as he closed his eyes, imagining himself sitting in the dressing room and Célestine smiling pleasantly, watching him play. He hated to bring the song to its end as his dream dispersed in his mind. Writing the last notes on his sheet, Erik stood up stretching his rigid body to free it from the pain.

He closed the leather binding with all of his blood strew sheets on it. The man tightens the leather cord around the book with a content smile on his face. Erik was hoping he could deliver it to her personally and see the reflection on her face about his gift.

The sheets felt so heavy in his hand, not to mention in his mind. He wondered if she was going to be the reining soloist for the opera and then run away with a more suitable and handsome guy than he. Leaving him in his world of darkness to condemn and torture himself with a permanent picture of his loved ones; dispersed, never to return.

Erik threw the book across the room onto a broken mirror. The content spilled out on to the floor, flinging and flying around like feathers in the wind. He grabbed his head and slumped down on to the stool.

The pictures of Christine's face were flashing in his mind like a moving picture portfolio.

It was taunting him.

It was haunting him.

Her smile was intoxicating; it had nearly made him crack inside out when he had seen it. Her looks were mesmerizing. Her voice was memorable. The only one that can make his soul soared to the height of the stars. But she was no longer his, but that doltish boy!

What did he have that Erik didn't? Aside from the deformity on his face that everyone seems to despise. It was a plague that poisoned their affection. The asinine pup didn't have the ability to compose exquisite pieces that he did for Christine. But that boy was not he and he was not that boy and Erik hated himself for that fact.

Erik picked up the book off the floor slowly, hoping time and death would pass by him so quickly that he would not even feel it. His mellow sigh traveled through the cavern.

It was time to face the music; literally. Erik would just waltz into her residence and hand her the music he had composed for a stranger he didn't even know. He breathed in deeply, trying to recollect his free flying thoughts. The phantom stepped into his gondola carefully before taking up the oar to paddle his way towards reality. The section of the skin that was under his mask started to perspire under the intense wave of emotions.

Each paddle echoed through the canal as he neared the main body of the house. Everything around him was silent. There was not even a peep of the rodents running around in havoc. Erik loved this silent. The silent of knowing that there will be something to look forward to the next morning, even if it was the sound of Christine's melodious voice or Célestine's triumphant remarks about her script. A discreet silence, something Madame Giry would have described it.

His large frame slumped with another heavy sigh as he pulled the gondola onto the shore. Erik was not wearing any exquisite pieces of clothing. It was just plain black trouser and a white shirt that was spotted with ink. She was a woman of virtues and of recherché taste, but her status held no lower than his. She was just a woman who does not need any expensive appeal to flatter her fancy.

He heard of the De Lorme name from words passed from mouth to mouth, newspapers and the Giries occasional gossip. Célestine was never mentioned in any of the publication, but was over shadowed by her younger sister and prime Donna, Aimee De Lorme-Monet, a soprano of great status. Aimee was known for her childishly plum shaped head and her wicked, spoiled little smile. It was _such_ a perfect family portrait.

He weaved through the candleholders silently, not letting the wicked things inferred with his turtle-like pace. Before long, he was standing in front of the illusion of a door way. The room was dimly by the fire place. The faint figure of the playwright's arm was draped over an ottoman. Everyday since she have been here, she slept, draped against a piece of furniture.

How does he know?

Gossip whispers will travel a thousand mile.

Erik pushed the mirror to the side. A soft whoosh of warm air brushed by him, he could hear the whips and crackle of the fire and her deep breaths. Without any sounds, Erik moved towards her. The playwright's hand was occupied by a piece of paper written with the utmost schooled calligraphy print. It was addressed from Sir Michael De Lorme, her father. At first he did not care about the contents upon the letter as he looked around for a place to set down his gift for her.

But his curiosity got the best of him.

He softly pulled the paper from under her grasp. Céles groaned before moving her arms momentarily before rolling off into another onset of wonderful dreams.

_Célestine, _

_'Tis not a matter of what situation you've put yourself in, I shall not fund you in your wrongdoings. Lud! You've put yourself in a world of mess and confusion and expect me to help you. Even though your eyes and ears will not take this so easy, even if I am your father, I have the ability to say no. If you want it so horribly bad, Célestine, you can scheme a plot in that devilishly intelligent mind of yours to find money. If you could have pursue another goal, another dream, like your sister, you could have been a happy soul, and die as one. Don't take it the wrong way m'dear daughter, if you only had married Duke Blakeley, your future could have been a bit more stabled. _

_The Lord's looking over you,_

_Michael De Lorme. _

Erik read over the note repeatedly. Her father seems like a heartless bastard, something close to what Erik might turn out to be if he was a father. His words were massively painful, especially for a much anticipated child, who hopes for her father's support. He set down the paper next to her opposite hand, leaning down to admire the curve of her cheeks, the curls of her lips, the waves in her hair and the lush filled lids that were covering her bright emerald eyes.

His eyes traveled to look all around her facial features until its shrinking pupils stopped at her wide opened green eyes…

----

That was my lame attempt for a cliffhanger.

I'm a slow writer. Please forgive me for my turtle-like pace. I'm in school for the summer and classes are dreadfully gags boring and massively busy and fast pace. So when I have large amount of time, I will _try_ to write. I know this chapter is a bit short, forgive me that I did not write enough to fill your thirst for more.

Thank you for those you've reviewed.

Reviews are greatly appreciated; flames are accepted.


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